Dear Sherlock
by SiriuslyJohnlocked
Summary: John writes a note to Sherlock while sitting in their old flat in the hopes of calming the hurricane of chaotic, jumbled thoughts in his head, wishing that Sherlock will come back to him. When Sherlock finds it, he must decide whether or not to come back and put John in danger, or stay in the shadows and leave him in misery. Johnlock later on. **ON HOLD**
1. Chapter 1 Missing Him Introduction

_**Author's Note: So, I just spontaneously thought of this idea, so please tell me of any really obvious mistakes, extra words, etc. XD**___

_**ALL reviews, comments, questions, etc. are appreciated greatly :)**_

_**Aaaanyway, I give you...**_

**Dear Sherlock**

**Chapter 1- Missing Him**

"Would you like a cuppa, dear?"

John Watson whipped around, startled, at Mrs. Hudson's voice drifting gently from the doorway. He set down the small golden picture frame he had been holding on the mantle, stirring up small clouds of dust. The picture in the frame was of him and Sherlock on their way back from one of their cases; John had called and asked the newspaper it had been in for the photo because it was the only one he could find that he felt was good enough to be on display. This room certainly didn't need any more sadness in it. The photo portrayed John and Sherlock walking down the road, hands in pockets, laughing genuinely and strolling side by side on a backstreet with the pastels of sunset casting a dreamlike quality on the world around them, a light breeze ruffling their hair. It seemed like a picture from a fairytale if you didn't know the story behind these two men, but as each of them knew, fairy tales weren't exactly what they seemed. Not in the real world, anyway.

Slowly, pulling himself out of his trance, John turned so that he was facing Mrs. Hudson. "Er, no, thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I was just dropping by to get some of my things and—"

The sad, knowing gaze Mrs. Hudson was giving him was too much for him to bear, and he turned back, stroking the side of the gilded frame with his thumb absent-mindedly.

"It's alright, dear, stay as long as you want. It's still your flat, after all. I'll be downstairs if you need me." John nodded thankfully, unable to manage much else, as she clambered back down the stairs behind him.

John's brain was cloudy, a chaotic hurricane of jumbled thoughts that made no sense. He couldn't even remember what he was actually supposed to pick up from his room while he was here, all he knew was that it was something he had wanted with him at the hotel he was staying at; being at the flat was too emotional for him, with all the glorious, bittersweet memories that haunted it. He crossed the room and threw himself on the couch, slowly pulling out his music player from his pocket and untangling his earphones before he put them in his ears, red from the cold and the unexpected meeting with Mrs. Hudson, and pressed play.

John had been hoping that music would help him think, to push his tainted memories to the back of his mind, even for a minute. It seemed, however, that every song he had reminded him of Sherlock in some way. His brain was even tainting his music. Groaning miserably, John hit the shuffle button once more.

_Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend_

_Somewhere along in the bitterness_

_And I would have stayed up with you all night_

_Had I known how to save a life._

With a disbelieving, tortured groan, he gave up and crossed back over to the desk in the corner without having any idea what he was doing. Helplessly, John picked up a pen and a clean sheet of paper and began scribbling down a note that seemed as jumbled as the thoughts inside his head.

Dear Sherlock,

I know. I know you're alive. It's not that I've seen you, heard you, felt you since I saw you jump, but I know that you have to be. No matter what anyone tells me, no matter what you told me, I will never believe that you were a fake. The very first time I met you….There was no way you researched all of that.

The look in your eyes, the glint they took on when you got a good case, couldn't be faked. It was unique, genuine. Just like you. I think you're forgetting that I was there by your side throughout some of your biggest cases, or else you don't know just how much I've learned to observe rather than just see. You're a genius, Holmes, but there's just no way that you could have been acting that whole time. Even you're not that good.

I also know, deep down, that you'll probably never really read this, but I'll feel better getting this all down on paper. It helps me think through the never-ending chaos in my head that's been going on since I watched you fall.

God, Sherlock, that was the worst experience of my life. Seeing the sparkle of your deep blue eyes reflecting off each window, each story you flew by in your final descent as your black hair flew in every direction. Your coat was flying behind you and your limbs were flailing about, you seemed panicked. Sad. Like this was never how you wanted it to turn out; and I don't think it was.

You see, Sherlock, I've learned a lot from the time I've spent with you, believe it or not. Maybe you were counting on that in whatever grand scheme this has to be. Even though it killed me, I couldn't take my eyes off of you while you fell, and that led me to notice a few things. You mentioned once, while we were studying a potential suicide case, that humans tend to follow their usual routine until their dying breath. You said it then because I had wondered aloud why a suicidal man would bring his leftovers home with him to an otherwise empty apartment the night of his pre-planned suicide, but I can't help but think there was a deeper meaning to it.

If you were really suicidal, I believe that your infamous pride would have caused you to keep your head held high and your secrets locked safely away in your very real heart until the second you hit the ground, that earth-shattering second that left a hole inside of me. But you didn't. You called me, and I won't pretend that I didn't see the tears falling from your eyes while we talked, and the way your hand was trembling throughout the whole conversation. I saw Moriarty's dead body up on the roof later that day, and it sure didn't look like you were the one that shot him. The legal report says it was a suicide, too, even though all the cops would have liked to believe it was you that ended his life.

I believe that, if you were really suicidal, you would have left a note. A real one, so that no one would know until after the deed was done. I've searched every inch of the flat-just in case- and there isn't one.

There's more, but I think you know. My therapist said it's my "denial" speaking, but I think you left a trail of these subtle clues for me. Maybe it was to confuse me for a while so you could do whatever you left to do, or maybe it was to lead me to you. But you see, I'm not you. I've missed something, somewhere; it's like you left me this great puzzle to figure out and I'm missing a piece, perhaps the most importantone, so all the clues are there but the big picture make no sense.

Do you remember when I told you how I found "the face" so annoying? How I hated that you always gave it to me after you figured something out? I used to think it was just because you were forgetting about me, but now, as I replay all of our adventures together in my head over and over (I do little else), I'm starting to think that maybe it was because you thought you'd finally found your equal, someone that would understand what made you tick. We were friends, in the strongest, deepest, most permanent meaning of the word, and it touches me to think this. But the sad fact is I'm not your equal; at least, not intellectually. As you can obviously see, I let my emotions and memories clog up my brain and there's no more room for the kind of detail in yours.

We had fights. We had tense moments. We had fallouts. We went through every imaginable kind of awkward situation around people that questioned our sexuality. Things like this used to drive me insane, but now I look back at them and laugh. It's so bittersweet, the arguments seem so silly and trivial now that I always find myself with a small smile on my face when I think of them, but it also kills me inside to think that I wasted so much of my time with you on things like that, instead of acting like the team we were. The team we ARE, and always will be.

My time with you was so short. So horribly, unbelievably short. Please come back Sherlock, come back to me. Whatever or whoever it was that made you do what you did….we can take them on, if we're together. I'll do anything you want if you can just go through with this one last miracle for me, Sherlock. Anything.

Just….don't be dead. Please.

Your friend,

John.

Wiping salty tears out of his eyes with the heel of his palm, John folded the letter carefully, sliding it neatly into a thick parchment envelope. Picking up the pen again, he put Sherlock's name in neat script on the front of the envelope on top of the words "_This is my note"_, delaying the journey to his room, which would undoubtedly be even more painful than writing the letter itself. Sighing, John walked sluggishly across the flat in the direction of Sherlock's room.

Once he arrived, he thought of just slipping the letter under the old oak door and leaving it there, but he changed his mind at the last second, knowing that this was something he would have to face eventually. Hesitantly, John reached one tentative hand and turned the doorknob, opening the door slowly as it creaked in protest. Wincing at every inch of the room, every memory the now-dusty, recently untouched room contained, John laid the note on Sherlock's dresser and turned to leave the room.

The door closed behind him with an eerie, mourning sound that reverberated around John before dying out with a sound of finality. Rubbing his eyes furiously, John turned and walked down the stairs, back to the outside world. He would have to face it alone…for now, at least. But in his mind, Sherlock would always be there by his side, although that wouldn't stop him from wishing with every fiber of his being that his friend could come back to him.


	2. Chapter 2

The air was crisp and cool when John stepped out of the flat he had shared with Sherlock and he turned his coat collar up out of a recent habit as he turned to his left and headed down towards the diner at the end of the street, hands in pockets and head down, watching his own feet travel across the cold gray sidewalk, trying, for once, to stop thinking. To forget. But, as he knew but tested anyway, forgetting was even more painful than remembering. He felt like the hopeless shell he thought he was when sent back from the army without his memories of Sherlock, who showed him just how strong and independent he could be if given the opportunity.

John hoped that he could make it to the diner without being disturbed for once. It seemed like everyone in the city recognized him and, all of a sudden, he was no longer the less-outspoken friend standing in the background of Sherlock Holmes' success, he was the man everyone pitied, because he was the man who seemed and acted like he had nothing left. John knew that everyone meant well when they stopped him in the street for a hand shake and to offer their condolences, but it was a constant, painful reminder all the same, and it made him feel more vulnerable than ever.

He made it to the diner with relative ease, and was just finished ordering his dinner when his phone began to ring shrilly. He thought about ignoring it but realized that the disturbance would just draw more attention to him so he sighed and, after another moment's hesitation, reached into his jacket pocket and slid his phone out.

"John Watson," he answered.

"Glad you finally picked up, Doctor Watson. It's Lestrade."

"Oh, hello Inspector."

"'Ello," came the voice on the other end of the phone. "Look, Doctor, I'm on my way to a case right now and I think I'm gonna need your help. We're short on staff."

"Look, if this is because Mrs. Hudson told you I need the money or something…."

"No, no, nothing like that. But we will pay you."

John hesitated, staring off into the distance for a moment. This would be the first official case that he would work without being by Sherlock's side. Would this help him to move on, or push him back over the precarious brink of depression he had _just_ overcome?

"I dunno, Lestrade…" he mumbled, unsure. "It just…I dunno…It might feel wrong to do something like that alone, you know?"

"I understand, John, but you can't avoid the world forever. Look around you."

John glanced around the diner. There were people eating food and watching the telly in front of them, talking to each other and laughing, which only reminded him how different the atmosphere would've been for him if Sherlock were there. There was a pen sitting on top of a stack of receipts on the counter, which made John think of the time that Sherlock asked him for a pen when he wasn't even there. There was an open jar of jam on the counter which made John think of how he and Sherlock had once argued because Sherlock had eaten all of the jam John used for his toast. _Everything_ around him screamed Sherlock.

But again, John's eyes were drawn back to the happy people in the diner. How could they be happy? Hadn't Sherlock's death been the end of the world, or was it simply the end of his? John had never really thought about how completely unaffected almost every resident of London had been by the suicide that shattered his own world. This actually angered him somewhat, everyone's happiness felt disrespectful to his friend; John felt that , if people really wanted to show respect towards him, they should act like they cared even if John wasn't around. But clearly, they didn't. John's fist clenched under the table and his knuckles glowed white in the dimness of the shadows as he contemplated what he could do to change this, although deep down, he knew he couldn't.

"Everything you see makes you think of him, doesn't it?" interrupted Lestrade in a whisper, voice cracking slightly.

"….Yes." croaked John in a similar tone. Admitting so somehow opened a kind of floodgate, allowing his emotions to flow through, and John fought to hold back a fresh wave of tears.

"Working a case might actually take your mind off things; at least, it does for me. And if it doesn't, then things will probably be no different than they are wherever you are or whatever you're doing. Please, John. For all you know, this could be what's best for both of us. I think we should stick together."

With a sigh, John finally agreed and told Lestrade to text him the address. Grudgingly, he got up and slipped his jacket back on, exiting the diner with one last longing glance at his food, which was being prepared behind the counter.

Once outside, John immediately called out for a Taxi. It took a while but eventually, one slowed down and stopped to let him inside as he gave the man, who was middle-aged with a friendly, reassuring smile, the address and sat back and tried to breathe deeply and contemplate what he was about to do on the way to the crime scene.

About 10 minutes passed when the cab slowed to a stop. John handed the driver the money, along with a generous tip out of habit, and stumbled out of the cab.

As he was walking towards the crime scene, Lestrade emerged out the front door and approached him. "Doctor Watson, you came! Alright, I'll tell you what, why don't you get warmed up and let me know what you gather from the outside."

John agreed, deciding that it would be best to stop and take in his surroundings so he could better _observe_ what was inside; the more information he had during this solo attempt, the better. Not that he really believed he had any hope of doing well, but he just wanted to do his best to not disappoint Lestrade, who was apparently putting a lot of faith and trust in him.

"Alright, well, what I see is a small brick house with a newly-patched roof, which probably means they have a bit of money, but not a lot. However, the landscaping around the front of the house is immaculate, probably professionally done, which might mean they have more money than the size of the house leads on. The car is new and apparently well-taken care of mechanically, judging by the state of the tires, but dirty, so, no offense, but statistically, it's most likely a woman's car bought for her by a boyfriend, husband, or relative. It looks expensive, but not made for safety or a family, so most likely a young fiancée or a relative that owes her something, more likely the latter, leading me to believe that she has a rather complicated history behind her and therefore we might want to investigate the family first—"John cut himself off as he realized how quickly and matter-of-factly he was speaking, he almost sounded like Sherlock himself. Perhaps it was just the atmosphere of a crime scene that brought it out but it was a strange sensation for John- _deducting. Alone._

Lestrade looked equally surprised. "Watson…that was….impressive! Definitely impressive. I- I hadn't thought about it that way yet…" He stuttered.

John nodded mutely, still registering what he had just said, feeling like he had been watching himself saying these things from afar, and led the way into the house.

After listening at the door for a few moments to make sure John had left to go to the diner like he usually did after visiting 221B, Sherlock Holmes gently opened the luckily unlocked door and slipped inside as quietly as he could. He may be trying to lay low for a while, but even a man on the run, especially one like Sherlock, couldn't resist a cold shower and some fresh clothes when they were right in front of him.

Sherlock carefully removed his shoes and hid them behind the sofa before padding softly to the room of his door, still trying to be as quiet as possible. It creaked slightly as Sherlock shut the door behind him but he didn't take any notice. For once, everything else in the world fell away. He didn't have to observe or deduct to know who had recently been in his room, because the first thing he saw when he entered was an envelope sitting on his dresser that had his name on the front, clearly written by John Watson himself.

With trembling fingers and eyes watery at the sight of John's handwriting, something he hadn't had the chance to see for a while now, Sherlock slipped the carefully-folded note out of the envelope and sat on his bed, eyes dripping more and more with each line.

When he finished, he laid down on his bed and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like forever, still clasping the note against his chest. What was he going to do? He couldn't just leave John in such a state, but it might still be dangerous for him if he came out of the shadows now, before he was entirely sure that Moriarty's men were gone.

Eventually, Sherlock Holmes wiped the tears off his face, stood up, and strolled towards the door. He had made his decision.


End file.
